Don’t Panic: There’s Always Plan B

She was a junior on the dance team with a yoga habit and the sort of ass that could turn Richard Simmons straight. Somehow she’d fallen for my freshman year awkwardness and was also prone to stick her legs behind her head nightly, which warranted sincere concern I was involved in some Inception-esque dream business.

“Put the condom on.”

She said it enthusiastically, as if my decidedly average endowment held the key to her salvation. She acted completely proper and reserved in person, but the slightest touch incited a sexual dynamo that my barely 18-year-old, near-virgin self could not handle. Naturally, as is the way of young men, I claimed to be highly experienced, with my YouPorn-plagiarized dirty talk writing checks my dick could not cash.

I’m in the bathroom rifling through my drawers, pledging forgiveness for my endless sins in exchange for a condom discovery. In what, in hindsight, should have been an immense boner kill, I realize my mother, who, of course, had unpacked my first college dorm for me, had placed a brand new box of condoms beneath the sink after a weird coming of age discussion I hope none of you had to cringe your way through. In this moment, her reading of assorted “your son is going to college” blogs worked in my favor, though she was convinced every inch of campus was crawling with super bugs capable of transmitting AIDs. Not HIV, just straight to full-blown AIDS. Moms can be so protective.

Anyway, since my real name is not Oedipus, I’m fighting the sick feeling in my stomach regarding my mother’s purchasing of contraceptives for me when panic starts to set in: I’ve been gone for what seems like an eternity. Maybe she isn’t interested anymore. Maybe she’s dry. Maybe she fucking left.

I hear “Siblings, get in here and fuck me” ring through the walls of my tiny shared bathroom. That napalm added to my raging fire of sexual inexperience and excitement — let’s do this. I reenacted the high school banana rubber simulation on myself, spit on it (don’t ask why; I just figured it was necessary, even with the condom and a woman under the age of 60) and stormed back into the room like it was the beaches of Normandy.

I basically just push it in, amazed my first of not-so-many welcome week sexual misadventures had begun, and realizing quickly it would soon be over. The things she was saying were so grotesquely dirty I could not contain myself, responding to her “harder” commands with a jackhammering, shortening my cock’s shelf life to well under a minute. When I’m just about to finish, and already formulating excuses in my mind for the definite disappointment of the budget Super Bowl commercial-duration pounding, she pulls off, and gets on all fours.

Oh. My. God. My first ever doggie style. I fucking love college.

Between the view and her continued ranting I just can’t hold it, my drill pumping her well with so much of my oil I could tighten an extra belt loop the next morning. This was, without doubt, the most mind-boggling orgasm of my young sex life, rivaling only my first ever blow job from a French girl on a bachelorette party getaway in the Dominican Republic. I was barely in high school and on a family trip over spring break, but more on that another time.

So I’m sort of just sitting there, still inside her, panting like a hyena when I realize it’s probably about time to get this rubber off. I pull out abruptly, and all hell breaks loose. Her vagina is like a soft serve machine, pouring soupy vanilla all over the bed and her legs.

“Siblings, what the fuck?”

She turns around feeling the extra, and totally unwanted, lubricant cascading out of her orifice. She abruptly stands and goes to the bathroom, chanting obscenities as I realize what had happened: I came, pun intended, with way too many RPMs, blowing out the rubber like an old tube sock and surrounding her eggs with a million Mini Mes. I was fucking terrified.

Sitting there, I was wondering as to the horrific consequences. Do I have herpes now? Are we getting married? Do I have to date her? Oh fuck, can I just go home?

The bathroom door opens.

“Siblings, that was seriously so much. Jesus.” She laughs in this time of crisis and lays down on the bed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” I’m stammering, “but the condom broke, and I think some got inside of you.”

She’s now basically hysterical.

“No shit, Siblings.” I’m perplexed by her levity.

“What should we do? This has never happened to me before. Should we go to planned parenthood?”

She can hardly contain herself.

“You’re adorable. I’ll swing by CVS on the way home and get a Plan B. It’s not a big deal at all.”

“A what?”

“Siblings, Plan B is like an after-the-fact condom, but a pill. It’s totally safe and makes it so you can’t get pregnant. I take it all the time.”

Relief overwhelmed my teenage heart.

Though I’ve come to realize her thoughts on the medical well-being of someone repeatedly taking Plan B are about as rooted in reality as Clinton’s email excuses, that sexually expressive woman taught me most of what I know today.